


We Will All Go Together When We Go

by Goodluckdetective (scorpiontales)



Series: fallout au [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fallout, Big Bang Challenge, M/M, Past Abuse, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-09-27 02:44:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9947144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpiontales/pseuds/Goodluckdetective
Summary: Simmons is an escaped synth from the Institute with one goal in mind: answers. So when he stumbles upon a ghoul who's willing to be his escort across the wastes for a discount price, he finds no reason to say no. Even if the ghoul is the laziest asshole he's ever met.Or: A ghoul and a synth meet, go on a road trip, and maybe find some lost parts of themselves along the way.Fallout AU.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The bang is over! Holy crap! It’s been a wild ride from start to finish, from both the perspective as a mod and the perspective as a writer. I signed up for this event as a pitch-hitter (aka, someone who fills in in case of a drop) so when I got started on this piece, it was under extra crunch time. But I did it! 
> 
> I wouldn’t have finished this if it wasn’t for a lovely amount of folks, of course. As usual, I have to give a shout out to Steph, Salt, Becky, Rena, and Taller for seeing my drafts and assuring me this wasn’t a garbage fire. Taller also helped me edit this entire sucker into working order, and without their beta, this thing would be a mess. So hats off Taller. You’re the real MVP.
> 
> I also would be remiss not to mention my artist, Hex! The art they did for this piece was honestly mind blowing and you can find it on their own blog (LINK TO BE PUT HERE). The work they did blew me away and when I saw it I screamed for like five whole minutes. I cannot thank them enough for the incredible time and effort they put into the bang. Please throw your support in their direction! Their blog is here (http://hexasart.tumblr.com) and all the amazing art they did is hyperlinked in here. 
> 
> Last but not least, I have to lay praise on my fellow mods who helped keep this plan together. All of you guys tackled so much work, which included so many spreadsheets, emails, and an incomprehensible amount of drafting. Without every last one of you, this event wouldn’t have happened. And extra special shout out to Steph who came into the group chat and said “how about we do a big bang” and ignored my panicked screaming .
> 
> Enjoy

Simmons remembers enough about the Institute to know he never wants to go back to it.

His exact memories are hazy, a part of his programming. He remembers white walls and polished floors, scientists in lab coats speaking to him as if he was a child. He knows how to program a computer to use Institute software and he can still hear a voice over the intercom that sends a shiver down his spine. It’s not enough to pain a full picture of the Underground society, not much more than the rumors floating around, but it’s enough to let Simmons know he’d rather be eaten alive than go back there.

Simmons jumps over a rock, trying to put some distance between himself and the Gen One synths behind him. This is what he gets for taking the main path to his destination: it made him predictable. He can hear pulse rifles fire and he barely ducks in time to avoid being hit directly. One beam passes right over his head, burning off some of his hair.

“Holy shit!” Simmons ducks behind a tree. Next time he heads off somewhere, he isn’t asking anyone for directions. If there is a next time. After months of being on his own, he should know better than to trust that the Institute isn’t still tracking him.. He reaches over his shoulder, grabbing the rifle he’d stolen off a corpse a few miles back. He’d managed to kill a few rabid dogs with it so far. What were a few tin cans?

 _Five tin cans programmed only to search, retrieve, and destroy_ , he thought. So maybe this fight would be tougher than some dogs. He makes sure his hands aren’t shaking before he turns and shoots off a round at the synths. It strikes one right in the arm, tearing through metal. The synth falls down, and Simmons would have cheered if it didn’t get up a second later.

That is the problem with first gen synths. Unlike Simmons their appearance is that of a android, wires visible under their mental plating. They are no smarter than pre-war autotrons, simple search and destroy bots for the most part. Easy to outsmart if you actually use your brain. But they are also durable. More durable than Simmons at least, whose third gen body is organic despite his cybernetic brain. It makes him indistinguishable from any human, which is an advantage most days. Except when it comes to taking bullets.

“Fuck,” Simmons shouts as they turn towards him again. Three angry synths all hoping to wipe him clean: this isn’t terrifying at all. Simmons sprints off, hauling his rifle behind him and when he hears the pulse rifles fire again, he makes the sign of the cross.

Simmons isn’t religious; he’s a synthetic human robot for God’s sake. But the person they’d used for his memories was. And that is enough to make some habits hard to break.

“Great work Dick,” Simmons hisses as he avoids pulse fire. “Three synths on your tail and Institute attention. You’re lucky they didn’t send a Courser.” He pauses in med sprint, brain stalling. “Wait, they didn’t think I was threatening enough to send a courser?”

A beam from a pulse rifle flies past his ear now. Simmons flinches, covering the now burnt skin. “Nevermind. Not offended. This is fine.” He starts running again, heading for the main path. At least if they kill him there, someone might benefit from looting his remains. Maybe they can sell his robotic brain for some decent scrap.

Another shot rings out, but this time, a sharp clanging sound followed it. Simmons stops, turning around. Behind him, charging two standing synths is another man, carrying a pack over his shoulder. A baseball bat barbed with wire was in his hands. Simmons outright gapes as he watches the man swing his bat at one of the standing synths. It drops at once, head soaring from it’s shoulders. Simmons steps sideways just in time to avoid being hit in the face from his former attackers head.

“Home run!” The man with the baseball bat shouts, slinging said bat over his shoulder. The last of the synths try to tackle him, but the man is faster, hitting it right in the chest. It collapses in a flurry of sparks.

“Holy crap.” Simmons says. He considers running, this guy could just be a scrapper, but instead he walks up onto the hill to get a look at his new savior. He’s a heavy built guy, muscular in his arms but soft around the edges. When he notices Simmons approach, he looks up.  

Simmons corrects himself at the sight of his face. This isn’t a man who came to his rescue. It’s a ghoul. A person so bathed in radiation that their skin crinkles, their nose falls off and their eyes turn black. This one isn’t entirely ghoul, only patches of him irradiated, and Simmons takes in the sections of dark human skin with surprise. He never knew ghouls could keep human features.

“You wanna keep staring at my face, or are you intending to do something about it? Because this isn’t exactly a great come’on you got going here.”

Simmons sputters. “I wasn’t, I-”

“Don’t get your panties in a twist. I’m fucking with you.” He kneels down next to the destroyed synths and picks up a pulse rifle. “You’re not going to fight me for this, are you? Cus I could get some decent caps with this loot.”

Simmons does not plan on fighting him. For one, it is doubtful he can win. “No. It’s all yours.”

“Score.” The man digs through the synth remains some more. Simmons just stands there and watches him, as he pulls out wires and hardware Simmons recognizes but doesn’t know from where. After a moment, the man looks up at him, a scowl on his face.

“You want something?”

“Who the fuck are you?”

The man reaches into one of the synth’s chest cavities and pulls out some piping. His hands are coated in oil and a yellow fluid. It smells terrible. “I’m Dexter Grif. Scavenger. Now freelancing in saving damsels in distress.”

Simmons grits his teeth. “I had it handled.”

“Yeah, and the Glowing Sea isn’t a cesspool.” He throws the piping in a bag he has over his shoulder and stands up, rubbing his dirty hands off on the grass. “You piss off the Institute or something?”

“Ran away.”

“Not bad. So you’re a synth then. One of the new human looking ones.” He tilts his head, peering at him. Simmons has to admit the ghoul eyes are unnerving. “You don’t act like a synth.”

Simmons can almost hear the software in his brain buffering. “I don’t act like a synth?”

“Yeah, You’re not scary at all. Thought you Gen Threes were supposed to be at least a little intimidating.”

Simmons crosses his arms, trying to puff out his chest. “Fuck you.”

“Yep, see, not intimidating at all. I’ve been more freaked out by Church. And he’s fucking falling apart by the nuts and bolts.”

Grif adjusts his bag over his shoulder. It looks heavy. Simmons is suddenly hyper aware of how little he’s carrying. All he has is one stimpack, a rifle and some ammo. He’s not exactly armed to the teeth.

“So, you going to be okay or like. do you need me to like escort you to the nearest town or something?” Grif says, standing up.  Cus I’d like to get that over with sooner than later so Sarge doesn’t start telling people I’m dead again-”

“I don’t need-” Simmons starts before he looks down at the synths below him. He did almost get fried. And, well, he has a long way to go. “How far are you willing to be an escort?”

“As far as the Glowing Sea if you got a hundred caps.”

“A hundred!” Simmons gapes. That’s obscene. Enough to buy him a better gun. “I can’t afford that.”

“Your loss.” Grif tilts his head to the side. “But-” He shrugs off his pack and holds it out to Simmons. “You carry my stuff? It’s twenty five.”

Twenty five to carry something around? It’s one hell of a price cut. Simmons thinks about it for less than a minute before he nods. “Deal, but only if I pay you after we get there.”

“Deal.” Grif grins at him and then drops his pack on the ground. The thump it makes is far louder than Simmons expected. “Let’s go find a place to camp out? Don’t wanna get found by bloodbugs.”

Simmons nods, then reaches down for the pack. When he lifts it up, he lets out a grunt. Jesus Christ, it’s heavy. He looks up at Grif who is already strolling off. “What the fuck are you carrying in this thing? Bricks?”

“Probably somewhere in there.”

Simmons starts to regret hiring a guy he just met five minutes ago.

 

* * *

 

They make camp two hours later.

“How’d you become a ghoul anyway?” Simmons hasn’t been in the Wasteland for long, but even he knows there are two types of ways people become ghouls out here; either they were around Pre-War or they took in enough radiation to start to convert. When he’d been traveling through the Southern swamps, one of the local settlements had warned him about taking in extra radiation. It was the first time Simmons actually had to wonder if such things could affect him or not.

Grif doesn’t even pause at the question, licking his fingers clean of Fancy Lad Snack Cake powder. “Ate some pre-war food. Woke up the next day like this.”

Simmons lets that sink in for a moment. “You ate pre-war food.”

“Yep.”

“Knowing it was likely covered in radiation.”

“Eh, I was hungry.” Grif throws away the wrapper into the corner of the shack they’ve set up camp in. “Plus, I don’t have to be picky about my food now. No rad detectors needed.”

In that moment, Simmons confronts the very real possibility that he has hired an idiot to travel with him. It’s not a pleasant five seconds.

Grif doesn’t seem to notice his distress, reaching into his bag. He pulls out another box of snack cakes. “Want some?”

Simmons does, which is weird because he hated those as a human. Ever since he escaped, they’re the one food item he’s actually had a terrible craving for. He’s heard a rumor that synths are supposed to like them, something like a built in part of their code. He doubts it: why would the Institute program them with a love of snack cakes?

It just has to be because they’re delicious, Simmons thinks, taking up Grif’s offer. Grif throws him a sleeve of cakes and Simmons opens it, taking a bite. They’re chocolatey and amazing.

“So where are we headed anyway?” Grif asks once Simmons has devoured almost an entire sleeve. Simmons resists the urge to lick his fingers.

“New Grove. A weeks walk from here. Need to check out a place there.”

“New Grove.” Grif sits up straighter, brow furrowing. “That isn’t the Deathclaw place is it?”

“Deathclaw place? No.” New Grove is too boring for Deathclaws to hang out. There’s not even any caves.

“I’m pretty sure it’s the Deathclaw place. Dude got mauled there awhile back.”

That story does sound familiar. Simmons decides to ignore it. It has to be somewhere else. “You’re thinking of a different place.”

“Alright, but if I see any scales, I’m booking it, caps or no caps.”

“Fair enough.” Simmons doubts there will be any Deathclaws anywhere near New Grove. It isn’t exactly bordering the Glowing Sea or anything.

“And why you wanna go there anyway?”

Simmons closes his eyes. To explain or not to explain? On one hand, it might be nice to share. On the other, nothing would make him seem like more of a freak then laying the situation out plain. He settles on telling a half truth.

“I left something there.  Unfinished business.”

“Unfinished business?” Grif snorts. “Could you be more cliche?”

“Shut up, Fatass.”

Grif doesn’t bat an eye at the insult. “Yeah, you too, smart-ass.”

This sets the tone for the next few days

* * *

 

The first night they make camp, Simmons dreams of a life he never lived.

It’s odd, having the memories of a man likely long dead. Pre-War memories. The Insitute probably decided to load them into his brain to see what was on the drive in the first place.

Richard lived in New Grove. It was a tiny town, one of the smallest in the area, and he remembered growing up there despite never setting foot in it. He remembered what it was like when the war broke out, he remembered how his brothers were likely to go off to war after he did, he remembered his Dad watching the morning news with religious devotion every morning.

What he remembered most, out of the memories that weren’t his, was his room. The tiniest in the house to denote his status as least favorite child. Richard kept the place orderly, almost Spartan, and Simmons could remember how he bought and installed three separate locks on his door to keep his father from looking through his stuff.

Here is what Simmons remembers about Richard: he wanted nothing more than to go to college and become a programmer.

Here is what Simmons remembers about Richard’s father: he wanted nothing more than his least favorite son to join the military and die so he’d finally bring some worth to the family name.

The memory that he dreams of is the one that floats across his mind the most often. Richard is in his room, sitting at his desk next to his terminal. The three locks on the door are all turned, barring entry. Shouting can be heard from outside, not directed at him, but nerve wracking all the same. This is it. A full year of work. His last chance to earn a scholarship to go to school like he wants.

In front of Richard is a large device, scrapped together out of what tech he could find. The motherboard is taken from a scrapped robot he found in the dump, the plating on the side is fashioned from his former alarm clock. The electrodes he managed to obtain are the property of the hospital where his mother works, a neurology lab. It looks like some sort of technological zombie, fastened and put together from the dead parts of other machines. Richard’s Frankenstein.

In the dream, Richard has the electrodes on his forehead, shaved back entirely to give him better access. His hair is in the bathroom trash can, and Richard only has a few regrets about getting rid of the entire red mop. When he clicks the button on the terminal, the humming noise he hears is the only sign it might be working at all. It hums louder and louder, a high pitched ringing in his ears and _Richard closes his eyes and hopes to God this works because-_

Then the dream stops. Nothing else. Blackness. Simmons wakes up moments later, panting. It makes sense: the dream is the last memory he got of his maker, the memory of his own birth. Being scanned and downloaded into a drive that would one day make it’s way into the hands of the Institute.

It itches at him, how much he doesn’t know about what happened after. How the drive he was uploaded on survived all those years. How he managed to retain so many memories of pre-war tech. What happened to the genius programer who made a copy of himself and hoped it survived?

Simmons knows he’s dead. Too many years have passed for him to be alive. He just doesn’t know how. Did the War take him with everyone else? Did he ever make it to college, or was he pushed on a ship with a bunch of soldiers and handed a gun?

That’s what Simmons has to know. A piece of history that is somehow his own. And his best place of finding it is in a town miles away.

Simmons runs his hands through his hair. Unlike the version of him in the dream, he has a full mop of locks. They’re red, not quite the same shade as Richard used to have, but close enough.

He wonders if the Institute knew that or if its just another thing that keeps him tied to the past without even trying.

 

* * *

 

Dexter Grif is the worst travel partner Simmons has ever had. Including the rapid dog who followed him around for a mile before it tried to take a chunk out of his leg.

He’s a slob for one. A massive slob. It’s amazing how a man can manage to make a wasteland even messier, but Grif still manages to get it done. Every camp they set is entirely disorganized, their supplies so scattered about that Simmons almost trips on a gun once or twice. His pack is a black hole of food products and random junk. Grif swears it all has a use, but Simmons is sure no man needs this many empty Nuka Cola bottles. Or any for that matter.

He’s loud too. The man has the stealth of a supermutant, swearing at the slightest conveniences. On their second day together, Grif manages to expose them to an entire group of Bloodbugs by straight up walking into a nest. Hours later and the stings Simmons got fighting them off still itch.

And the laziness! How the man could have stayed alive this long has to be a miracle. Even though Grif is willing to carry around loads of crap from place to place, he isn’t as willing to slug around anything useful when Simmons is around to do it for him. When it comes to setting camp, that responsibility lies to Simmons as well. Grif bemoans whatever effort he has to put in that isn’t absolutely necessary.  It’s like caring about anything is too much of a task for the ghoul to bare.

Grif doesn’t like traveling with him either, from what Simmons can tell. By the end of the second day, they have a pattern of insults going. Systematically picking out each others flaws and waving them in the air.

“Smartass.”

“Fatass.”

“Dumbass.”

“Asshole.”

“A supermutant is smarter than you.”

“At least a Supermutant can fucking carry a pack.”

“Fuck you.”

“No, fuck you.”

They threaten to leave and head out on their own a few times. Neither does. They don’t want to travel alone, after all. Lonely business, walking the wastes alone.

(And while neither may admit it quite yet, they don’t find their travel partner entirely terrible enough to consider ditching them.)

* * *

 

“Do you ever wonder why we’re here?”

It’s their third day on the road, and Simmons is pretty sure his back is going to hurt forever given how much shit he’s carrying around. Grif is behind him, being slow as usual, and he doesn’t bother to look over his shoulder to answer the question.

“Because the Institute decided to make me.”

Grif groans. “Dude, that’s no fun.”

“You asked. I answered.”

“You know what I meant.” Grif speeds up so he’s walking as fast as Simmons. Simmons can see him now without craning his head.

It’s not a forgiving day in the woods of Vanhala. Hot and humid, the summer heat is stifling. Both of their shirts are soaked through with sweat. The shade  the trees provide give little relief. Simmons is sure they should have gone through Sidewinder instead, but Grif had insisted there was a crazy asshole living up there so he went along with the Vanhala path. Given how little progress they’re making with the sun out, Simmons would rather fight the crazy asshole. At least he might be interesting.

“You want to talk philosophy? Now?”

“Don’t see why not. Don’t get a chance to debate a synth on humanity every day.” Grif’s back has straps, leaving his hands free. He swipes some sweat from his forehead. What he misses rolls down his nose and into his beard. “So what do you ascribe to? Plato? Kant? Nietzsche?”

Simmons almost misses his step with that. He’s not well read on philosophy, but he knows the names. He didn’t think Grif would. There’s no such thing as an education in the Wasteland, no schools to attend. Books, intact books, are scarce. “How do you know about them?”

“I read.” Simmons keeps staring and Grif rolls his eyes. “Took up shelter from a Rad Storm in a Vault once. I think their experiment was with professors or something, because they had some big books. Had to pass the time somehow.”

“So you read philosophy?” Simmons is sure his mouth is hanging wide open. He considered himself a massive nerd and he couldn’t even stomach philosophy. Everything in those books had always been too dense for him as a kid. Robotics? That he could get with enough time. Philosophy? He was a lost cause.

“Had to do something to keep busy. It was that or physics.”

“Physics is cool.”

“Well, duh.” Grif rolls his eyes. It’s not the response Simmons was expecting. “The books were all theoretical though. There was no math at all.”

It takes Simmons a moment to process that sentence. He almost drops his bag. “You like math!?” No one Simmons had met in the Commonwealth so far had liked math. Or knew it, besides basic algebra.

Grif brushes back his sweaty hair. It sticks to his forehead. “Gotta make my guns somehow. Engineering is easier if you know math.” He glares at Simmons. “Now can you stop gaping at me and get moving? You think it’s hot now? Just wait till the sun rises.”

Something about Grif’s expression just doesn’t sit right with Simmons. He’s not quite sure what. Maybe it’s the mild twitch on the word “gaping.” Over the last three days of bickering, he’s never made Grif look like that. Just a tad hurt.

It clicks in Simmons head at once. Grif thinks he thought he was stupid. Which to be fair, he did, but not any less-informed than the rest of the population of the Commonwealth.

“I didn’t mean-” Simmons stammers. He hasn’t walked in over a minute and Grif is almost a few yards ahead of him. “I didn’t mean to say-” Grif doesn’t turn around and Simmons remembers years of failed socialization in high school fresh. Not this time. Richard might have been incapable of having a conversation, but he won’t be.

“You have to make a bridge over the Blood Gulch Canyon. How do you do it?”

Now that gets Grif’s attention. He stops and turns around, loosening his grip on his bag. “What kind of fucking question is that?”

Simmons crosses his arms. He feels a bit like his father with the gesture: it’s not a pleasant thought. “A bridge. Over Blood Gulch Canyon. How would you do it?”

“Blood Gulch doesn’t need a bridge. That’s not even practical.”

“Neither is philosophy.” Simmons tightens his grip on his bag and walks forward. In a minute, he passes Grif who is looking at him like he grew two heads. Grif speaks up a mere second later.

“Well, first you’d need some steel scrap-”

A mile later, they are still bickering on the proper support needed to sustain a bridge of that size.

It’s the best conversation Simmons has had since escaping the Institute.

* * *

 

Four days after hitting the road with Dexter Grif, they almost get themselves killed by a band of Raiders.

It’s ridiculous, how well armed the Raiders are. Instead of pipe guns, they have actual pre-war weaponry, and even worse, they can actually aim. Grif calling them “mutant fruit fuckers” probably doesn’t help the situation when they get ambushed, and soon enough Simmons and Grif are fighting tooth and nail not to get blown to bits.

“I swear to God, if we get our asses killed by a bunch of junkies, I am haunting you,” Simmons hisses. They’re ducked behind a rock for cover and Grif rises to fire off a few shots. He’s using the weirdest gun Simmons has ever seen, some shotgun with a curved end that works as a blade. Grif calls it the “Grifshot.” Simmons calls it a disgrace of engineering.

“You can’t haunt me: you’re a synth.”

“Fuck you, that’s-” Simmons peers over the bolder to fire a few shots himself. He hits two guys in the chest, but misses three other shots. He’d prefer a grenade over the pistol he’s working with, but they’re out. They used them all on a infestation of mutated bats Grif flipped his shit over. “Robotist.”

“Robotist?”

“Discriminatory against robots.”

“That doesn’t exist-” Grif pushes himself to fire, then his eyes grow wide. He grabs Simmons’ arm and soon enough they’re running to dive behind another rock as their former hiding spot goes up in flames. It looks like these Raiders have some grenades left. Simmons is jealous.

“We are so fucked,” Simmons mutters, reloading his gun. He’s got plenty of rounds, but they’ve got more people still standing. Five versus two. Better than the ten they started with, but still risky.  

“There’s only three of them,” Grif says. “We’re like, gently fucked at most!”

“Grif-” Simmons is about to burst into a tirade when a roar echoes through the air. A roar that reminds Simmons of a dinosaur. Both him and Grif freeze hearing the roar again.

“Ah shit!” One of the Raiders screams before the ground starts to shake. Something big is running towards them, and Grif and Simmons hear the screams and sounds of men being ripped apart. Both of them stay perfectly still behind their boulder looking at one another with wide eyes.

The screaming stops. They hear a few footsteps, the ground rumbling some more before it stops. Simmons and Grif don’t move as they hear heavy breathing above them. Grif closes his eyes. Simmons rallies what little courage he has and looks up.

A large, brown Deathclaw with yellow eyes stares back at him. Blood is smeared around it’s jaw. A foot hangs out of it’s mouth. He reers his front legs up, letting out another roar. The foot falls from his mouth.

“Okay then,” Simmons says, closing his eyes. “This is happening.”

So this is how it ends: eaten alive by a Deathclaw. At least he’s not getting mind wiped by the Institute. He waits for claws to dig into his torso.

They never come. Instead he hears a shout from the back of the beast.

“Take that gentlemen! That will teach you to try to beat off Franklin Delano Donut!”

Simmons opens his eyes. Looks up.

There’s a man riding that Deathclaw.

Simmons freezes, staring at the man who is currently poised on top of one of the most dangerous creatures in existence like it’s no big deal. He’s on the lean side like Simmons, but he looks to be made of pure muscle, at least where his arms are concerned. Grif, who’s decidedly less freaked out than he was when this whole ordeal started, waves.

“Sup’ Donut.”

“Grif! Is that you?” The man, Donut, jumps off the Deathclaw. To Simmons’ surprise, the Deathclaw stays where it is, doing nothing but making disgruntled noises. When Donut hits the ground, Simmons gets a better look at his radiation suit, which is like most if it wasn’t for the hot pink tint. Donut pulls Grif  off the ground into a hug which Grif halfheartedly returns. Donut’s grip looks almost painful. “Sarge said Lopez ate you.”

The Deathclaw behind them growls. It’s with a sense of horror that Simmons realizes “Lopez” is the Deathclaw.  He manages to get to his feet as well, but not without a bit of stumbling.

“The old man wishes.” Donut finally releases Grif from his grip and Grif takes an audible breath for air. Grif points to Simmons. “This is Simmons. He’s a synth.”

“Grif-” Simmons hisses. Does he need to announce it first thing?  He doesn’t get to say anything more before Donut pulls him into a hug of his own. Simmons feels like he’s being squeezed to death. When Donut let’s him go, Simmons gasps, hands on his knees. Grif smirks at him like he wasn’t being tortured the same way only seconds ago. Asshole.

“I’ve never met a synth before. Well, that I know of. And if we don’t count Church.” Donut plants his hands on his hips. “My name is Franklin Delano Donut. And this is Lopez!” He turns to Lopez and Simmons gapes as he makes a low growling noise. Lopez growls back, burying his head into the ground and Donut turns back to Simmons. “He says it’s nice to meet you.”

“He says?”

“I speak Deathclaw!”

“He doesn’t.” Grif says under his breath.

“Lopez has to have a translator after all!”

Lopez grunts at that. Simmons swears he can see the Deathclaw roll his eyes. He wasn’t aware they could even wear facial expressions. Simmons looks to Grif and then Simmons. “So how’d you two meet? Bar? Trading post? Basebook?”

“I saved his ass,” Grif says. Simmons glares at him.

“I didn’t need saving.”

“Correction: I saved his ass, his torso, his extremities and his smartass brain.”

“Well isn’t that sweet.” Donut doesn’t pick up on the vitriol at all. Simmons wonders if he’s doing it on purpose, or if he’s just dense. “Sarge will love to hear that story. He loves a good romance.”

“Romance!” Grif and Simmons say at once. Simmons’ pale skin goes beet red in an instant, and Grif looks like someone insulted his mother.

“Romance? With him?” Simmons words come out haltingly.  “Have you heard him snore?  It’s like a chainsaw!”

Grif glances at Simmons than back at Donut. “Donut, unlike you, I have standards.”

Simmons turns on him at once. “What standards? Having a pulse?”

“More like a having a basic sense of humor.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck you!”

“Aw, young love,” Donut says as they bicker for the next few minutes. He looks over his shoulder to Lopez. “Isn’t it sweet?”

Lopez considers eating them all and fleeing for the Glowing Sea.

After Grif and Simmons argue themselves out ten minutes later, they manage to have a civil conversation with Donut for half an hour. Donut speaks of Red City, a place Grif turns out to live most of the time, and the Ghoul Mayor there who apparently has one hundred caps on Grif drying by being eaten by super mutants. Lopez, the Deathclaw, turns out to have been raised by said Mayor himself.

“He’s very tame,” Donut says. He pats Lopez on the side. The Deathclaw snorts.

Lopez wonders if the free steady stream of food is worth playing dumb pet.

Red City welcomes all according to Donut, and Grif doesn’t correct him so Simmons buys it. A refuge for all types, including synths, which gets Simmons by surprise.

“You guys allow synths?”

“You betcha! We allow anyone, especially those Blue City won’t take!”

“Blue City?”

Grif makes an annoyed noise, turning his head away. “Fucking Blues.”

“They don’t allow non-humans,” Simmons explains. “Except for Church.”

“That’s because he’s enough of an asshole to count as human to them,” Grif grumbles.

“It’s a big place. Nicest in the Commonwealth. Well not as nice as Red City-”

“You got that damn right! Oh!” Donut digs in his back pocket and pulls out a piece of paper, folded in two. “Kai has a letter for you! I was headed back to Red City to give it-”

“Give me that!” Grif almost rips the letter out of Donut’s hands. He begins to open it, but then noticing he has company, he scowls, tucking it in his back pocket. Simmons doesn’t miss how he buttons the pocket flap to keep it from falling out.  “Look, thanks for the save Donut, but I gotta get this loser to New Grove.” He starts walking forward. “Come’on Kissass, we got ground to cover.”

Grif heads to start looting the bodies of the Raiders. Donut looks to have a few of their supplies tucked into the bag he keeps on Lopez, but he clearly didn’t grab everything. Simmons watches Grif collect random scrap and looks to Donut.

“Kai?”

“His younger sister!” Donut says, cheer in his voice. “She’s cool for a Blue! Has all sorts of tips on lubricants! Always helps me slick up my wheels.”

Simmons tries to overlook the language. It’s not worth thinking about. “She lives in Blue City?”

Donut nods. “It’s safer there than Red according to Grif. He helped her get set up there and everything, though I had to move all her stuff. Now I just  help deliver the money he sends by selling scrap.”

So that’s why he picked up so much junk, Simmons thinks. It makes sense now. Guess the guy has to making a living somehow. Simmons crosses his arms, watching Grif take a break after checking one body. “Too lazy to do it himself?”

Donut’s eyebrows rise before they crinkle. Simmons has the distinct feeling he’s being judged and not kindly.

“Grif is a ghoul,” Donut says. “They won’t let him in.”  

It takes a moment to sink in. Safer. Sends money. Simmons frowned, a swirling feeling in his gut.

“How old is she?”

“Now? 19.” Donut must notice his expression because he checks to make sure Grif isn’t watching when he speaks next. “But she was 14 when we got her in.”

A picture forms in Simmons brain, one he never considered before. He always thought Grif to be on his own, looking out for himself. It was a simple math problem. He never factored anyone else in the equation. Now, knowing about Kai, Simmons realizes he’s missing one last variable.

“And how old is Grif?”

“22.”

He does the math. Three years older than his sister. So 17. Taking care of a child. Working his ass off to get her safe, even if he can’t come with. The opposite of the selfish bastard Grif projects himself to be.

Simmons always hated being wrong.

* * *

 

After Simmons knows, he starts seeing Grif differently.

He can’t help it. So much behavior makes sense now, things Simmons thought were silly quirks were  survival mechanisms. Collecting useless junk? Grif had to sell it to make a buck. Having Simmons carrying a heavy bag? So he could carry another and have double the supplies. Sure, part of it was laziness, but a larger part of it was learned habits to survive.

Simmons felt incredibly dense for not noticing it earlier. Despite his time in the Wasteland, he was still mentally in the time he was programmed. A world where food was expected for every meal. A world where survival was through getting out of his house and far away from his father. Not any lesser than Grif’s survival, just different.

Grif notices. Of course he notices. He’s smarter than he pretends to be. When they make camp the next night after meeting Donut, he starts talking before he even lights the fire.

“What’s with the look?”

“What look?”

“That look.” Grif points to his face as he fishes a lighter out of his pocket with his other hand. Simmons is surprised they still work. Grif clicks it a few times before flame sprouts and lights the dumpster full of old newspapers in front of them. They’re seated on opposite sides of it in lawn chairs they salvaged from a nearby house. Simmons is missing some back pieces so he can’t lean back without potentially breaking a few. “You keep staring at me like….I don’t know. Like I’m a terminal you’re trying to hack or something.”

“I can’t hack you. You’re organic.” As soon as Simmons says it, he feels incredibly stupid. Way to go, Richard. But then Grif laughs.

Simmons has never heard Grif laugh before. At least not like this. It’s a rich sound, carefree and joyful. Handsome.

“That’s- wow.” Grif controls himself before Simmons can think on that last thought further. “Nice going there brainiac.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m incapable of it. Organic programming.” Grif taps his skull, smirking. “So...what’s with the staring? Last time a guy kept looking at me like that he planned on robbing me blind.”

“I’m not going to rob you.” Simmons doubts he could even rob Grif successfully. The man is bigger than him, and more muscular. Grif reaches into his bag and pulls out a bag of chips. The bag crinkles. Simmons remembers what Grif told him the first day he met.

“Grif...how did you become a ghoul?”

Grif’s pulls a couple of chips out of his bag and throws them into his mouth. “I told you. Like this. Pre-war food.”

“Why were you eating pre-war food?”

“Because it’s delicious?”

Simmons considers stopping there. It does sound like Grif to get himself radiated for a bag of chips. But after what Donut told him...well. Grif’s not an idiot. Why would he risk his chances of one day settling down in Blue city on a snack?

“Did it have to do with Kai?”

Grif’s hand pauses in the bag, the plastic crinkling. He looks at Simmons and even with the crumbs stuck in his beard, Simmons has no doubt he could kill him if it came down to it. When he speaks, his voice is a low rumble.

“How do you-”

Simmons holds up his hands. “Donut. He told me.”

The dangerous expression vanishes from Grif’s face. He groans, dragging his hand down his face. “Of course he did. He has no sense of boundaries. Ever.” He reaches back into his bag more forcibly than needed. “How much did he tell you?”

“Just about her and Blue city.  And why you collect the scrap. Not a ton.” Grif’s eyebrows raise. “I’m serious. That was it.”

“Okay, okay I believe you.” Grif eats a few more chips and then rubs at his ears. “Damn, your voice gets high pitched when you’re nervous. Like a banshee.”

“Grif!”

“Just saying. Alright.” He sets the bag on the ground and leans forward, looking into the fire. “So what do you wanna know?”

“Uh…”

“Just uh?”

Simmons ran his fingers through his hair. It was tangled in knots from travel. “I didn’t think I’d get this far.”

Grif sighed, long suffering. “Look, you want the sob story, right?” Before Simmons could answer, Grif held up a finger. “You ask about anyone’s past in this shithole, you’re asking for a sob story. It comes with the turf. Though mine isn’t exactly that interesting-” He looks into the fire, lacing his hands together. “It was my sister and I for a long time. Mom was out of the picture when I was around 12: went to join the Children of Atom or something. I wasn’t really paying attention. Kai was like 9, so someone had to keep her fed. And since I was already providing for our asses anyway-” He shrugs. “We got by.”

Got by. It’s a low bar, Simmons thinks.

“I mean shit happened. We didn’t get enough scrap or enough caps on trades. So sometimes food got fucked.” A deep frown appears on Grif’s face. “I never ate pre-ward food because I was hungry alright? I mean I was, but I’m not a fucking idiot, Simmons. I know how to use a rad detector. And I know if you don’t have one, it’s best to let anything pre-war go. But-”

He drags his hand down his face.

“We were really low on food one day. And Kai was hungry. So when it came down to splitting what food I dragged back, well: she got the good shit. And I was so hungry, and I thought it might not be too bad-”

It clicks in Simmons head. “And you got ghouled.”

“Yeah.” Grif shrugs. “I’m not mad about it really. I got to keep half of my good looks. And now I can eat all the pre-war food I want.” He gestures to the bag of chips. “That shit is delicious. Much better than bloodbug, I can tell you that.”

There’s no joy to the smile Grif plastered across his face. Simmons hates seeing it. He distracts.

“How’s Kai now?”  
  
“Good, actually. Has a good gig working for the Churches.”

“She works for a church?”

“Fuck no. Kai wouldn’t go into a church unless she was there to fuck a priest.” Simmons turns scarlet. “The Churches are detectives in Blue City. Pretty good ones too, even if Church himself is an asshole and-” Grif looks over his shoulder. When he speaks next, it’s a whisper. “And Carolina’s a hard-ass.”

“Did you seriously just check if someone was listening? We’re in the middle of nowhere.”

“I don’t test my luck. You ever meet Carolina, you’ll understand why. She wrestled a Deathclaw with her bare hands once.” Grif leans back against the cola machine, reaching into it to pull out a drink. When he opens it up, he pockets the cap and takes a long sip. “But yeah, Kai works for them. I set her up with the gig: loaned her some caps so she could bribe the guards to let her live there. She’s their secretary. I didn’t think she’d be any good at it, but they keep her on, so she must do something besides the occasional customer. They pay her well too. She can afford her own place and everything: I don’t always gotta send her caps now.”

“And they won’t let you in.”

Grif snorts. “Well, yeah, but not that I wanted to live there anyway. In Blue City? Please. They’re a punch of pricks, ‘cept Kai. Got the weirdest fucking problems. In Red City? Your biggest issue is some scavenger trying to break in. Blue City? There’s crazy ass vigilante shit going on. I’m pretty sure there’s some new dark underground conspiracy theory to worry about each week. No fucking thanks.” Grif takes another long sip then licks his lips. He taps the side of his face that has the ghoul skin. “The non-human rule is just another reason. Church only gets to stay because he’s useful. And it’d be a pain in the ass to get him to leave.”

Banned? Two conflicting images appear in Simmons mind, two stories he’s been told by the same man. In one, a boy raises his baby sister risking life and limb to keep her safe. In the other, he spends miles away from her as she resides in a town he can never visit. They seem irreconcilable on the surface.

But only on the surface. Because when Simmons thinks about it, there is a clear connection between Kai’s life then and her life now: it’s safe thanks to Dexter Grif. Grif who saved her food so she could eat safely. Grif who set her up in Blue City in the first place with a job.

A realization hits Simmons like a brick; he’s misjudged the man in front of him terribly.

“I’m sorry.”

Grif puts down his soda. It’s empty now. “For what?”

“I’ve been an ass to you. It wasn’t deserved.”

Grif’s mouth drops open. “Oh God, are we having a moment? I hate moments unless everyone in the room is incredibly intoxicated.”

Simmons is sure his left eye is twitching. Irritation floods his bones. “Are you seriously making fun of me for apologizing?”

“Nah. I’m making fun of you for making this thing weird.” Grif reaches into the machine and pull out another cola. This time instead of keeping it for himself, he throws it to Simmons. Simmons, by some sort of miracle, manages to catch it. “Look, you don’t owe me shit. Not your fault you didn’t know my sob story.”

“But-”

“But nothing. Everyone’s got a shitshow going on; being a jackass is bound to happen down the line.” He points to Simmons soda. “Now go and drink your Nuka. It’s cherry.”

Simmons looks at the bottle in his hands. His memories tell him he likes Nuka Cherry. He wonders if it will match reality. He runs his thumb over the cap and thinks of a man decades before him, chugging these things as he fiddled with wires in his basement.

Grif trusted him with information today. Information about himself. A powerful weapon in the Wastes. Simmons can at least return the favor.

“I...have the memories of someone else.”

“What?”

“My memories.” Simmons taps his skull. “They were downloaded. Off an old hard drive some pre-war guy created. A scan he made.”

“A scan.”

“Yeah. I basically woke up thinking I was him. It was pretty weird.”

“You woke up….you remember pre-war?” Grif’s eyes are as large as saucers. Simmons nods and Grif’s eyes grow even wider. “What was it like?”

Simmons thinks about that for a minute. His memories are relatively clear, unnaturally so. He can picture almost all of it like he’s watching a holotape, every color and shadow right in place. The image of the street he remembers growing up on comes to mind. He can remember the milkman driving down the street, the jingle from his van ringing loud and clear. No rust is seen on any buildings, no windows are broken. It looks perfect.

“Cleaner. A lot less deadly.” Simmons pictures the other memories, the ones besides the scenery. The ones with other people. He can remember how kids who weren’t white were mocked as traitors at school, however evening broadcast gave them a “list” of things to watch out for. The block seemed almost at war with each other, everyone convinced their neighbor was working for the enemy. Another memory comes to mind, a man he remembers as his father yelling at him for spending so much time programming, how he was supposed to go to war or be kicked out of the family.

The beauty of the suburban street in his mind fades away to reality. Simmons chews on his lower lip. “And, pretty terrible honestly.”

“Terrible!” Grif squints at him. “You’re fucking with me.”

“I wish I was.”

There must be something in his tone that tells Grif he’s telling the truth, because Grif doesn’t push further after that. Instead, he’s quiet, twisting his fingers together. He picks at his fingernails before he speaks again, meeting Simmons’ gaze.  “Dude’s life must have been pretty shitty for you to prefer this.”

Simmons looks down at his hands. Pictures a pair that belonged to a young man decades earlier, covered in grease and oil. A man desperately trying to preserve a version of himself that might survive the time-period he’d been born in.

“Yeah,” Simmons says. “It was.”

Grif thankfully doesn’t ask him to elaborate. “So New Grove? Was that where he was from?” Simmons nods. “And you want to go back there?”

Simmons shakes his head. “Not exactly. It’s more...I need to figure out what happened to him. He-” He waves his hand, searching for the right words. “He wanted to leave there. Go to college, for programming. It’s why he made the scans: to submit for applications. His Dad wanted him to go to war instead, for pride, I think. I don’t know which he chose.”

“And if he chose the army?”

Simmons runs his hand down his face. It is a possibility. One he hates to think about, but one nonetheless.

“Then at least I’ll know.”

Grif says nothing, only giving Simmons a whole back of extra snack cakes.

* * *

 

They make it to New Grove the next day. Well, it’s more like they make it to the outskirts of New Grove on the first day. Because as soon as Grif and Simmons look into at the town a hill below them, both notice the five Deathclaws curled up around what used to be the suburb's modest park.

Simmons doesn’t know what’s weirder: that a bunch of giant radiated lizards decided to settle down in New Grove or that they’ve decided the best place to settle is around a statue of a bald eagle. Simmons can remember when they put that statue in. Richard had watched the piece’s installation when he was ten years old. It was slathered in gold paint, wings outstretched. His mother had called it tacky. Seeing it years later, most of the gold paint chipped off to show the bronze underneath, Simmons finds himself agreeing with his mother’s assessment.

“I told you!” Grif says. They’re ducked behind a wooden fence at the top of the hill. Simmons keeps trying to peer over it but Grif keeps pulling him down by his shirt. “I told you there were fucking Deathclaws here and you didn’t, oh my God-” He yanks Simmons down as he tries to look over the fence again. “ _Do you want to get eaten_?”

“We’re almost there! I can see my house.”

“It’s not _your_ house, it’s- nevermind.” Grif takes a deep breath in, pinching his nose. “Did you not see the Deathclaws?”

Simmons did, in fact, see the Deathclaws. They were hard not to notice. They were bigger than normal Deathclaws, well if you could call Deathclaws normal, and some of their scales almost glowed. Radioactive Deathclaws. Simmons had always hoped they weren’t real. And now there were three between him and his destination.

He’d come so far. Normally three Deathclaws would send him packing. But now. After so many days traveling, so many months on the run wondering-

“We could sneak past them?” Simmons says, shrugging. Grif gapes at him like he just suggested to go at the Deathclaws with only a baseball bat.

“You can’t-” Grif’s mouth snaps shut. He peeks over the rock then crouches back to look at Simmons. Runs his hand down his face. “You know I’m not stealthy, right?”

He’s considering it. Which means, with enough effort, Simmons can get him to agree.

Thirty minutes later, after copious swearing and a near miss, then sneak into the house Richard once lived in without a word.

* * *

 

The room Richard one lived in is practically empty.

Simmons doesn’t know what he was expecting. This place had been unoccupied for decades: thinking all his stuff would be there was foolish. Any scrappers would have taken all of his fancy tech and scans the minute they broke in. But he’d hoped.

His hopes were in waste: the room he sees now carries few traces to the one he remembers. His bed is gone, only the soiled mattress left behind. His posters on the walls are faded, unreadable from their exposure to the light. Most of the clothes and bedding are gone, and what little remains is no more than rags. The drawers in the dresser have been overturned, items sprawled across the floor. The only sign that he ever had a computer is a faded imprint of where it used to rest on his desk. When Simmons runs his finger across the rotting wood, it comes up thick with dust.

“Jeeze, this place is picked clean,” Grif says, then winces. “Shit, sorry-”

“It’s fine. You’re right.” Simmons opens the drawers of the desk. There’s some papers in there, but they’re mostly pulp. A few of his old baseball trading cards has survived, however, saved from the rain from the corner they were tucked into. “Hopefully they left any records behind. Not exactly prime scrap.”

“True.” Grif goes over to his dresser and digs through it. He lets out a minor yelp and before Simmons can turn around, he hears a crunching noise. Simmons watches as Grif pulls out a dead radroach and throws it to the side.

“Looks like you had guests,” Grif looks down at the corpse of the bug. “I should probably check for more.”

“No, no, I’ll do it,” Simmons says. He has to admit, now that he’s in the room he remembers, it feels almost confining. A prison of his own memory instead of the safehaven it used to be. He steps out into the hall.

“You okay, man?” There’s no joking in Grif’s tone, only concern. It’s wild, how different they’ve become in the last week. The ghoul and the synth: travel buddies of convenience to friends. Simmons will miss it.

And isn’t that a terrible thought? Once he has his answers, this ends. Grif will go back to Red City, off to do more scrapping and odd jobs. Simmons will be left with his answers and what he wants to do with them. He’ll finally have the ability to put the past behind him, a past that was never his.

What feels like a lifetime ago, Simmons would have been delighted at the thought. Now, he just feels lost.

Being alone was terrible before, but being alone after being in the company of Grif for a week? It sounds unbearable. Who will he talk to? Who will watch his back? Who will he bicker with over the food supply?

“Simmons?” Grif’s voice snaps him out of it. Simmons looks over his shoulder. Grif is in the doorway, an envelope in hand. The seal is broken. Simmons can see the return address as clear as day: M.I.T. “This where he applied to?”

Simmons finds his mouth is very dry all the sudden. “Yeah. It is.”

They stand there in the hallway for a moment, perfectly still. Grif holds out the envelope. The edges are crinkled. Richard had to have opened it multiple times.

“You want me to read it?” Grif’s voice is soft. Simmons shakes his head, his trembling hand reaching out for the letter. He takes care to pull out the piece of paper without ripping it, and unfolds it. The print on the page is faded, but he can still read it. Or at least the parts that mattered.

“He was accepted,” Simmons says, awe in his voice. “He got in. Full ride.”

“Damn.” Grif takes a step towards him so he can look at the letter as well. Their shoulders are touching as he cranes his neck to get a look. Simmons lifts it an inch so he can see. “Guess the original had more brains than the remake.”

Simmons shoves him, but there’s no force to it. He looks at the letter a little longer. Accepted. That’s his answer. Which brings another question-

“Did he go?”

That question takes the smile off Grif’s face. “What?”

“Did he go? He might have gotten drafted. Or he couldn’t get the books. He might not have gone.” Simmons thinks of where he could find that answer and his shoulders drop. Only M.I.T would know that information. And every piece of tech they’d ever had, every piece of paper and record had been raided and sold for scrap decades ago. “I’ll never know.”

Grif stares at him for a moment. Simmons can see him picking his words. When he speaks, it’s with his same uncaring tone.

“Who cares?”

Simmons gapes at him. “What-”

Grif holds up a finger then prods it in Simmons’ chest. It hurts just a fraction and he rubs the spot. “Who cares? He’s not you.” Grif gestures at Simmons’ head. “Yeah, you got his brains or whatever, but that doesn’t mean you’re him. You’re just a guy with the same memories.”

“Do you know how stupid you sound?”

“I think I sound pretty smart actually.” He points to himself. “Look, let’s say the Institute scanned me or something. Made a copy. Would that synth be me?”

Simmons is about to say no before he even thinks about it. No, that synth would not be Grif. He’d be based on him, he’d be like him for sure, but he wouldn’t be him.

“I-”

“There. You got it.” A smile spreads across Grif’s face. “He isn’t you. You’re someone different.” He points at the letter. “Would this dude follow some random drifter around as a travel partner?”

Simmons pictures it and shakes his head. No he wouldn’t. Richard hated guns. And he hated strangers even more. Simmons didn’t have the privilege to keep up any of  his predecessor’s old habits. He couldn’t sleep without a gun at his side, and there was no avoiding strangers if you wanted to survive on your own.

He looks down at the letter. Grif is right. But something haunts him, the same thing that dragged him here in the first place. The memory of a young man, barely 19, praying for a way out of the cards he’d been dealt.

“Was he happy?” Simmons asks. The question he’s avoided thinking about this entire time. Was Richard ever happy for a moment in his life?

Will Simmons be?

Grif is quiet a moment before he reaches forward, grabbing Simmons’ shoulder. His grip is firm.“Dude, he got accepted to M.I.T. I think he was for at least a moment. And given how far you’ve gotten in this hellscape, I think you might have a chance at it to. At least more than any of us idiots.”

Simmons smiles. He can’t help it. “Did you just admit to being an idiot?”

Grif is stock still for a moment before he pulls away his arm and socks Simmons in the arm with little force. “I just tried to have a moment here and you throw it back at me! Fuck you!”

Simmons smile grows even wider. Grif notices and his non-ghoul brown eye grows wide. He looks at Simmons’ face. Takes a step closer. Simmons drops the letter in his hands.

It’s at the exact moment that the letter touches the floorboards that they hear the sound of Institute pulse rifles outside.

Simmons doesn’t hesitate. He tackles Grif to the floor, so they hit the wall under the windowsill. Grif struggles against him, trying to get up.

“What the fuck-”

“It’s the Institute.”

Simmons peeks through the window for only a moment. He can see them in the distance, around five, enough to constitute a squadron. And a courser, given the human looking man in a black jacket who leads them. Too many for them to take on alone. There’s something smoking on the ground, probably whatever they shot at, and for a hopeful moment Simmons hopes the fire was enough to attract the Deathclaws’ attention. His hopes are dashed when they only look up for a moment before lying back down. Not enough of a threat to startle them. And synth squadrons aren’t exactly a Deathclaws’ ideal meal.

A fleshy ghoul and an equally fleshy third gen synth on the other hand? Well, that’s more up their alley.

“The Institute?” Grif looks up at him as Simmons peers at the gathering force. “What are they doing out here?”

Simmons turns away from the window and slides back down to the floor. He feels his stomach churn. “They’re here for me.”

Grif’s eyes grow wide.“What?”

“I’m lost property to them. They want me back. They want everyone back who bothers to run.”

“What for? So you can annoy them in person?”

The joke falls flat. Simmons curls his knees to his chest and presses his forehead to his knees. Takes a deep breath before looking back up at Grif. “To reprogram me most likely. Or to scrap me all together.”

Any snark that Grif had planned looks to die on his lips. “Reprogram you?”

“To wipe me into something less dangerous to them probably.” Simmons reaches for his pistol and looks for how much ammo he has. It’s enough to maybe get one or two of them. Go down shooting and all that. Just like his father wanted.

“You have to run.”

Grif’s voice catches Simmons entirely by surprise. He looks over and finds Grif digging through his pockets, picking out what ammo he can find. A few clips for some of their pistols, a couple of grenades they grabbed off the raiders. He lays them out in front of him, organizing them by what hits harder.

“What?”

Grif doesn’t look up at him. “You have to run.”

Simmons is sure Grif hit his head when Simmons tackled them to the floor. “You can’t be serious.”

Grif doesn’t answer, starting to  load his rifle. “I’ll cause a distraction and you can book it. If I live, we meet back up at the tradepost we passed a few miles back.”

 _If he lives._ Like that’s an option. “No way.”

“If you run fast enough you’ll make it. And you can run fast enough: you’re fucking fast when you’re freaked out.” He places three grenades in Simmons hands. “You can take the back door, and throw this at anyone who tries to-”

He is deathly serious, Simmons realizes. Committed to this stupid plan full heartedly. He puts the grenades back on the floor.  Reaches over to force Grif to lower his rifle. “No.”

That stops Grif. It’s like Simmons has flipped a switch: Grif transforms from strategist back to something resembling his former self. “What do you mean ‘no’?”

“No. You’re not causing a distraction.” Simmons starts to get to his feet. He only makes it halfway up before Grif drags him back down.

“ _Are you insane_ ,” he hisses.

“No. You are.” Simmons tries to get back to his feet with no success. Grif does not let go of his death grip on Simmons arm. “Dude, let go. If need to go out there-”

“And let them kill you! No way!” Grif pokes him right in the chest. “They will kill you, Simmons. At best. Or they’ll take you back to the Institute and run all sorts of crap on you. If I cause a distraction, you can escape.”

“And then you’ll die.”

“They might not kill me. Maybe they’ll let me go.”

“The Institute hates everyone who isn’t Institute. They will absolutely kill you,” Simmons goes for the extra punch. “They might even get bats involved.”

The non-ghoul parts of Grif’s face look ashen. He shakes his head. “You’re just trying to scare me.”

“And dying doesn’t?”

“As long as it isn’t by flying rodents!”

Simmons peers through the window. The synths begin to grow closer. They have to find the right house eventually. He has to go out there and give himself up if Grif has a chance. Simmons is about to  do as such when Grif lets go of his arm, looks out the window and shouts.

“Hey, gears! You guys got good scrap?”

“What are you doing?” Simmons is horrified. They know he’s here now. Know he helped a synth on the run. It will make him a target as much as Simmons. There will be no running for Grif now, even if Simmons gives himself up.

“Distracting. I’m a mindless raider now.” He gets up grabbing his gun and heads for the stairs. “I’ll keep them occupied. Run. If I make it, I’ll meet you on the cliffs.”

“Grif!”

Grif pauses. Simmons is frozen in place, partly out of shock, partly out of horror. He smiles at him, that honest Grif smile Simmons has only seen once.

“You weren’t a bad travel partner, smartass. If I don’t make it, make some use of my shit. I’ve spent too long dragging it around.” He pauses. “And tell Kai what happened. She’ll understand.”

And then he’s gone, down the stairs and out the door, Simmons reaching out for him too late to make him stay.

* * *

 

Here is the truth of the matter that Simmons will never know: there is no record of what happened to his predecessor.

There aren’t a lot of physical records of what happened to people Pre-War. There are verbal records sure, Mayor Sarge of Red City can tell you every man who served in his regiment to this day, but there is little concrete proof of what happened to the thousands of people who lived in an entirely different world. Sure, some things can be assumed, but what happened before the bombs is much harder to discern. One’s legacy making it to the modern era was a matter of fame and luck.

Richard was neither famous or lucky. The only sign he existed is an empty room in New Grove and a crumpled acceptance letter.

This is what Simmons is left with; possibilities of what happened afterwards. There are plenty of them to consider.

In one, Richard goes to college, takes the full ride and studies robotics. He graduates the top of his class and once he does, he takes a job in the robotics lab looking for ways to refine his brain scanning machine to help individuals with brain damage. When the bombs fall, he looks through the windows of his lab, a hand on his latest project, and wonders if it was worth it.

In another, Richard is forced into the army. He goes overseas to Paris and hates every second of it. His comrades hate it too and when the fight is done they play cards and complain about their parents. He’s a shit field soldier, so they give him the job of heavy weaponry. When he sees the enemy sniper, it is far too late.

Two lives. Two out of millions that might have played out. Simmons can’t begin to consider them all. But as he stews over each situation, each life he could have lived, he can only think of one thing. Richard may have been happy. He may have been miserable. He could have died brave. He could have died shitting his pants. That is the past. There are no answers there. That past is not his future.

His future, Simmons thinks looking at the back door, has yet to be decided. A future on his own again where he runs as far as he can and never looks back. A future where he goes out and tries to save Grif from the fate he’s chosen. In one he might die. In the other, it will be a miracle if he doesn’t.

Simmons turns away from the door, walking down the hall to where the basement lies. He hesitates for only a second when he turns the doorknob. Because here’s the truth of the matter-

In only one future he may have the chance of seeing Dexter Grif ever again. And that is worth risking everything for.

* * *

 

Grif always knew he’d go out on the road. It was a given for someone in his profession. Guns for hire didn’t die of old age, and those who did were usually the ones who took the shadiest jobs imaginable. When Grif pictured his demise, he assumed he’d go the way of ferals, or maybe a Deathclaw if he was lucky enough to go out with style.

The Institute never factored into that picture. Neither did dying to save someone else besides Kai. As Grif is hauled out in front of Simmons’ old house, he can’t help but think this week has been one of surprises. The good kind. Surprises he could get used to. Too bad it’s coming to an end.

“Where is Unit 1837?” The synth who drags him out of the house he tried to wage war in asks. It’s not Simmons’, his house is across the street. Simmons should be gone from it by now. The synth has it’s weird gun pointed right at Grif’s head. Grif isn’t quite sure what it does. He hopes it’s a quick death at least: he’s not in the mood to go out slow.

“Never met it. Is it a toaster?” The synth presses the gun closer to his forehead. “Okay, not a toaster. Maybe an oven? You’re gonna have to be more specific with those serial codes.”

“Unit 1837.” The synth says, voice flat. Grif wonders how Simmons can be related to these things in hardware. These things have the emotional output of a radroach. Simmons on the other hand, is indistinguishable from human. “It goes by the name Richard Simmons.”

“Sorry. Don’t know any _its_ that go by Richard.” The synth that is holding him in place tightens it’s grip so it hurts. Jackass. “Okay, let me rephrase. I know a _guy_ who goes by Richard Simmons but I have no fucking idea where he went. And if I did, I wouldn’t tell your polished metal asses.”

“Our rears are not polished,” one of the snyths says. Grif groans. He can’t even have the dignity of being killed by someone who will appreciate his burns.

“The ghoul knows nothing,” the courser says. There's blue paint over his designation number. Grif decides Sarge was right: Blue sucks. “Destroy him.”

Grif closes his eyes. He thinks of Kai, back in Blue City. She’ll be pissed he died, but not once she knows the reason. Grif hopes Simmons actually tracks her down to tell her. He’s sappy enough to bother. And maybe then Kai will get an idea of why he put his life  on the line for a synth-

“Let. Him. Go.”

Grif eyes open wide, shocked. Simmons was supposed to run. That was the plan: if the Institute got their hands on him, they’d wipe his hard drive entirely. The worst they could do to Grif was kill him. For Simmons, they could turn him into a mindless shell of himself with a gun.

He’s ready to tell Simmons to book it, to give up the hero act. Simmons’ fighting has improved since they met, but it isn’t nearly good enough to take on almost a dozen synths. He looks up, mouth parted to yell.

The words die in his throat. Because Simmons, Richard Simmons, less than a few months old to the Wasteland proper, has a fucking Fat Man in his hands, loaded and ready to fire.

“Holy fuck!” Grif says. The synths holding him must be as shocked as he is, because they don’t even bother to tighten their grip on him. He hears one of them drop their gun. Grif didn’t even know that early model snyths could be surprised into fumbling anything. “Dude, what the fuck-”

“Shut up Grif, I’m trying to be cool,” Simmons said. His hands don’t shake at all, a sharp contrast to how he held a baseball bat or a knife. Maybe he wasn’t fucking around earlier: dude could just be scared of sharp things. Grif thought that made absolutely no sense, a Fat Man could fuck you up a lot worse than a knife if you slipped, but at the moment he was happy for it. “Now, let the ghoul go.”

“Negative.” Grif doesn’t miss the fact that the synth pauses before responding. It looks like even the most basic models have some self preservation. That’s good to know. “We are tasked to return you to the Institute. That is not possible if we let this creature go.”

“I have a fucking name, asshole,” Grif growled, struggling. He gets some leverage to his surprise, and manages to dart forward a few inches before another bot manages to grab him. The grip is way too strong on his wrists. Grif decides if he survives this mess, he’s going to spend a ridiculous amount of caps on lotion to deal with the bruises that will be left there.

“Noted,” the synth says. “Lower your weapon or Grif will perish.”

Simmons levels his Fat Man. The fact it’s so near to him makes Grif want to puke. He’s seen those things in action only once and the incident was enough to make him want to avoid them at all costs. He likes his limbs, thanks. “I have a Fat Man.”

“That will also kill your friend.”

“Grif is immune to radiation,” Simmons says with a grin.

Grif’s mouth drops open a fraction. That’s where he’s going with this. Idiot. “But not to explosives, you jackass!” Simmons’ eyes grow wide and he looks to Grif. “Did you seriously not fucking think of that?”

“I was hoping-”

“I’m not explosives proof! Do I fucking look like I got steel plate skin here!” Simmons face grew a little red.

“I’m sorry I don’t know how ghouls work-”

“You’ve been killing ferals for weeks with grenades! How the fuck didn’t you figure it out!?” Grif is starting to wonder how Simmons managed to copy his own brain if he couldn’t understand stuff like this. Maybe he messed up the coding on his first run, left out common sense somewhere. It’d fit. The snyths holding them captive don’t say a word throughout their argument, entirely silent and Grif drops his head. “Oh we are so fucked. Kai is going to be fucking pissed. I’m getting reverse haunted. She could do it. She’s stubborn enough.”

“Well,” Simmons says after a moment. He raises the Fat Man a fraction, so it’s leveled above the crowd of synths that’s gathered. He looks at Grif and shrugs. “Look, if this doesn’t work, at least I tried.”

The roar that echoes through the air is deafening. Simmons falls back as the Fat Man goes off, the little nuke sailing into the air. Grif watches as it sails far above their heads, goes for a significant distance, and then crashes around a street away. A small mushroom cloud erupts behind a crowd of ruined buildings and mounds of dirt. The wave of heat that follows would give anyone radiation sickness if they were human. There’s a moment of silence as everyone takes in Simmons move, before anyone speaks.

“You missed.” The lead synth says. “This is why you must be reprogrammed-”

It doesn’t finish. Another roar sounds through the air, that of a creature instead of a massive explosive. Grif recognizes it at once. How could he not after spending so much time in Red Town. He grins and looks back at Simmons.

“You didn’t.”

Simmons grins just as wide as he is. He reaches for the fat man next to him and pulls it onto his lap. He waves at the group of synths. “Hope those guns of yours are good on scales.”

The synths turn to look down the street. Sure enough, the nest of Deathclaws they snuck around earlier is there, all of them, snarling, claws bared. One even glows. Their tails are raised, smoke rising off their flanks. The glowing one, a brilliant red, roars.

The synths let go of Grif, reaching for their weapons. Grif takes his cue and fucking books it. He hears the Deathclaws burst into a run in the distance, their claws scraping against the pavement as the synths open fire. He doesn’t even think before swooping up Simmons and carrying him over his shoulder bridal style.

“You’re not as lazy as you say, Fatass,” Simmons says as the gunfire echoes around them. Grif’s resounding grin is all teeth.

“Keep firing, Smartass. Unless you wanna be Deathclaw lunch.”

“Think they like metal as an appetizer?”

“Probably not any more than they like ghoul. Now shut up and shoot.”

Grif runs for what feels like a mile. It’s more like maybe a quarter of one, enough to get them out of the Deathclaws range. Simmons fires off two more Fat Men, using his entire clip, and once that’s done, Grif drops him and they book it as a pair. Another quarter mile, when they’re sure the Deathclaws haven’t followed, they stop and look each other. Both break out into hysterical laughter at the same exact time, falling to the ground.

“Holy fuck. I can’t believe,” Grif says, clutching his stomach. “ _I’m trying to be cool._ What the fuck was that?”

“I tried!”

“You failed, that’s what you did.”

“Shut up, I saved our asses.”

“Yeah, in the lamest way possible. I gotta teach you some one liners,” Grif looks up at him. “Where did you get a Fat Man anyway.”

Simmons catches his breath between the laughter. “Basement. My Dad kept a stash of military grade weapons. Just in case.”

Grif pictures that: the shitty asshole Simmons described holing up dangerous nuclear weapons in their basement. It fits the picture Grif has painted of the man. “Of course he did.”

They’re silent for a few moments. Simmons is bright red, likely from the running and Grif looks him over. He’s in one piece, freckles and all. Not bad for a fight against a dozen synths and five Deathclaws. “Thanks. For coming back for me.”

Simmons stares at him for that. Grif can almost hear the wires and gears spinning in his head. After a moment, he runs his hand through his hair. When he speaks, his voice is soft. “You tried to save me. No one’s bothered before. Couldn’t exactly leave someone like that behind.”

Grif sits up so he’s closer to Simmons. He arches an eyebrow. “That’s gay, man.”

If Simmons was red before, he’s scarlet now. He turns to Grif, scowl on his face. “Showing my sincere thanks does not mean it’s gay, two men can show affection-”

Grif puts his hand on his shoulder. Leans in. His intent is clear. Simmons’ eyes grow wide, almost like saucers. It’s a bad look on him from an objective point of view. Grif finds it endearing. “I didn’t say I didn’t like it.”

The sentence sinks in for a moment. Both men stare at each other. When Simmons leans in as well, Grif takes it as his cue.

Kissing Simmons is different than Grif thought it would be. It’s not robotic at all, not that Grif expected it to be. Simmons is awkward when he starts to reciprocate, movements almost shy, and Grif can’t help but smile into the kiss. This will be fun.

He pulls back after a moment. Simmons is looking at him a little dazed. Kai will like him, Grif thinks. She’s always liked those she could shock. She’ll probably having him bright red every moment she visits.

“How do you feel about city life?” Grif says. “Cus I could really use someone to split rent with. And maybe take up a few jobs with. A heavy gunner preferred. Think you know a guy?”

Simmons looks down at his hands, the palms still indented from how tight he gripped the Fat Man earlier. He runs his hands over the indents. He thinks of the house behind them, the house where another version of him languished and suffered. That’s a past he’s never had claim to. Seems senseless to obsess over it.

“I think I know a guy,” Simmons says.

They grab the Fat Man on the way to Red City.

 

* * *

  
In a shitty apartment in the middle of Red City, live a ghoul and a synth (though the synth fact is known to a rare few).

They’re an odd pair; everyone in Red City can attest to that. Two of Mayor Sarge’s boys, which means they have to have a screw loose just like the old man. Mercs, both of them, shitty errand runners more than anything, who manage a shop of high explosives and try to argue with the Mayor’s pet Deathclaw once a week. Within a week of cohabitating, their arguments become expected and their obsession with debbie cakes settle into legend.

The entire town agrees they are destined to get married at some point. There’s a betting pool for it, run by the city messenger, Donut. Mayor Sarge has them down for a year from now with 100 bottle caps riding on it. The Church Detectives put in their collective fifty caps for a few months from Christmas. Doctor Grey, who runs the memory shed, has the highest bet, which is 500 caps after they cave to attending therapy.

Grif and Simmons ignore the whispers, content to running their shop and kicking the ass of any Institute cronies who try to stop by and carry Simmons off. It’s a good life, theirs. Better than what Simmons would have expected from the Wasteland. Almost boring, if it wasn’t for the occasional attack.

Three years after they met, three years after Grif introduced himself by whacking a gen-one synth in the face with his baseball bat, three people appear on their store doorstep. The first is expected: Mayor Sarge brings them customers sometimes. Folks looking for some heavy firepower usually, or scrap metal to do repairs with. These customers are less expected. One is a man whose face is covered in freckles, his outfit perhaps the best armor Grif has ever seen in his life. The other is a man in a vault suit, his curly black hair shaved on the sides.

“Simmons. Grif,” Sarge says in place of an introduction. “You two assholes fought the Institute a while back, didn’t you?”

Grif stares. He isn’t aware Sarge ever listened to that story fully except for the bit where Grif almost got himself killed. Simmons manages to speak up first.

“Kinda?”

To the pairs’ surprise, it’s the Vault Dweller who steps forward at their response. He’s bolder than any other vault kids they’ve ever seen; if he’s intimidated by the collection of ammo they have stocked, he doesn’t show it. He holds out his hand. “My name is Lavernius Tucker. I need to find the Institute.”

There’s a long pause. Neither man shakes his hand. Grif once again speaks first.

“So you want to die? Lopez can take care of that one for you just fine.”

Tucker grits his teeth. He’s heard this before then. “I said I need to find the Institute.”

“You and half of the Wastes,” Simmons says, leaning forward on the counter. “The half that doesn’t is fleeing from them by the way. Just in case it wasn’t clear.”

The armored guy behind Tucker looks like he’s going to make a move but Tucker raises his hand. He glances to the photo they keep of Kai on the counter, one of her now and one of when she was younger. Back when Grif was the closest thing she had to a parent. He levels Grif right in the eye.

“They took my son.”

Grif freezes. Anyone who doesn’t know him well wouldn’t have noticed it, the careless slope of his shoulders almost permanently built into his frame but Simmons knows it when he sees it. Grif might protest about this job later, might refuse to take it for weeks on end, but he’ll cave eventually. Tucker’s got him. Which means he has Simmons.

Simmons straightens up. Sighs. Claps Grif on the shoulder before heading to the back room.

“I’ll get the Fat Man.”

They were due for another adventure anyhow.


End file.
